Sylvia spun around, her gaze crashing into Rupert's icy eyes.
"Don't even think about calling the cops."
His voice was a command, brooking no argument.
Under the harsh glare of the fluorescent lighting, his eyes -set in a face as striking as it was intimidating- locked onto hers with an intensity that was almost threatening.
Sylvia’s fists clenched tightly, her shoulders shaking. Her face pale, tinged with a hint of blue, betrayed the effort it took to steady herself.
"Why?" she finally asked, her voice low and strained. "Is it just because they're part of the Simpson family? Do we deserve this? Why is it always me who ends up being sacrificed?
Once, twice…"
Rupert remained silent, his gaze eerily calm.
Sylvia, on the brink of hysteria, lowered her gaze to their shoes. A pair of sneakers and a pair of handcrafted leather shoes, a clear sign their worlds should never have collided.
She let out a self-deprecating laugh, mocking her own futile attempts to challenge the inevitable.
"Fine. I won't call the cops. Just don’t regret your decision today."
Snatching her phone back, she stormed into the hospital room, the door slamming shut behind her.
Orson approached Rupert with a frown. "Mr. Garcia, shouldn't we explain to Ms. Lloyd that…"
"No need."
With that, Rupert's phone rang. It was Bridget. He squinted slightly but didn't answer, turning to Orson instead. "Continue with the task I assigned you."
"Understood."
…
Naomi was still sleeping peacefully, while Sylvia sat vigil, too exhausted to sleep.
Suddenly, her cheek felt warm as a cup of hot cocoa was handed to her. Looking up, she was surprised to see Warren.
"Warren," she barely whispered, her legs feeling weak.
"Sylvia, what's wrong?" Warren quickly wrapped an arm around her.
Sylvia rubbed her head, making up an excuse. "Just pins and needles in my feet."
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